Inside My Head

On the canal with Jim

​I went to Thailand to celebrate the New Year. Accompanied by my sister and her husband and the ever charming Gregory, we departed the day after Christmas and flew to Bangkok via Thai Air. (Btw, my new favorite airline. Love the hot cloths, the cool water, the unending food and wine, and the attractive and personable flight attendants.)We did the ritual tourist stuff: we rode the elephants, we visited the floating market, we ate the durian. I saw so many buddhas, I simply lost count. I enjoyed all of it. I would go back...no, I will go back...in a heartbeat. And, I tell you, winter is the time to visit. It is warm there, and, if I understand correctly, it gets a lot warmer in the summer months. I can hardly imagine. All that aside, two items stand out to me that proved to by my hands down, absolutely most favorite part of the visit: massage (said "mah saahje") and the Jim Thompson house.

First of all, where the heck has Thai massage been all my life? How have I managed to live without it? When this was first suggested to me, I balked. I do not get massages here at home. There was, however, a massage place next to our guest house and after a long day of trooping through temples with Gregory on my shoulders, I finally succumbed to the prodding of our host and went to check it out. "You will like it," declared Mr. Fang, "Take all the pain away." I certainly couldn't argue with the price: about 1000 baht or $30 American dollars. So, I grabbed my brother-in-law and we sauntered over. We were both feeling a bit out of our comfort zone already and going in a pack gave us confidence. Two tiny Thai women greeted us, gave us an outfit consisting of a cotton shirt and drawstring pants to put on and then, directed us to a small room in which to change. After changing, they ushered us, together, into another room with several mats laying side by side on the floor. We laid down and they proceeded to mash, pummel and arrange our bodies into submission. At one point, my massage lady had my feet up on her shoulders and was pushing my gangly legs in all sorts of ways to which they are unaccustomed. I looked over at my brother-in-law who was similarly tied up like a pretzel and we burst out laughing. The Thai ladies found our laughter amusing and they began to laugh as well. It ended, with me on my stomach, being walked on. It did not always feel comfortable, but I think when I walked out of that place, I felt more relaxed and at peace then I've felt in a long time. After that, I went for massage at least every other day.

The second thing I experienced was so unexpected and so fantastic, I can hardly believe I hadn't heard of it or him, for that matter, before. I am referring to Jim Thompson and his house. It started as a fluke; an unexpected rain storm delayed our plans to head south to the beach. Anabel decided to plan a quiet day for Gregory so I decided to strike out on my own. Having seen enough temples and markets to last me awhile, I asked Mr. Fang for something interesting to do. "Jim Thompson House," he replied, "He was American. You not know him?"I did not know him. Mr. Fang got me a taxi and I was on my way to Klong Maha Nag. A klong is a canal and they run all throughout Bankok. You can ride the water taxis on them, but I didn't enjoy this too much because they pull up giant yellow tarps to keep the "yucky canal water" (as Gregory would say) from splashing on you and consequently, you can't see much. The Jim Thompson House is located on one of these canals near downtown Bangkok. When you arrive, you can only see the roofs of the dwelling poking through the trees populating the extensive gardens. I was totally captivated by it from the moment I stepped through the gate.

The house is actually a museum and it costs about $3 to get in. Tour guides take you through the house which is filled with priceless antiques. The day I was there, it was busy with numerous groups winding through the house following their guides who were speaking either Thai, Chinese, Japanese, English, German or French.

The house is really a group of old Thai houses that were placed on the site and connected by the construction of hallways and staircases. The entire structure is teak. The architecture is like nothing I've ever seen before. Everything is simple and functional and yet, highly ornamented at the same time. The roof contains numerous gables and is high and peaked. The windows are large and open to the canal. This and the fact that the entire structure sits on stilts allows air to circulate all around it. Built in the style of old fashioned traditional style Thai houses, this house was designed to be self cooling. Remember before when I said how warm it gets here? I cannot imagine having to live here without air conditioning. The house also has electricity and plumbing with running water but those appear to be the only modern conveniences. Along with all that practical stuff, however, it the decorative side. The window bases are these carved panels called yong. Woven silk panels depicting scenes of traditional Thai life cover the walls. Porcelains, statues and paintings, all purchased by Thompson during his lifetime fill the house. Our guide explained that Thompson loved Thai culture and wanted to preserve it.

I learned from my tour guide the Jim Thompson had single handedly revived the silk market after World War ll and his company was still going strong. Intrigued I decided to visit so, after my tour of the house and the grounds, I grabbed a tuk-tuk and headed to the Jim Thompson store in Surawang to do some shopping. I splurged on silk scarves for my sister and mother, a couple shirts for myself and even a t-shirt for Gregory. I even ate lunch there is the small but stylish cafe.

I look back on my day at the Jim Thompson House and then, later at the store and the cafe and it seems to me like I had an 'out of culture experience'. In other words, I went to Thailand expecting to encounter a culture that was radically different and exotic to my own and...I did, but I also encountered this other American who had embraced and valued Thai culture and created something enduring and special that continues to this day.

I have since read several articles about him and an excellent book called Jim Thompson: The Unsolved Mystery by William Warren. If you're planning a trip to Thailand, put this on your agenda. You will not regret it.

I need this.

Ever come across something, see something, experience something and you just hear this is your head: "I need this."I do."And just what is it, Keith," you ask, "that you so desperately feel you need?"I need a Smeg. "A what !?" you say.Let me be more specific. I need a Smeg fridge. They're an Italian appliance company. They make appliances that are super cool and retro looking, but up to date in every other aspect.This is the one I like in particular: The blue one with the Union Jack on it. It reminds me of London. I love London. It also reminds me of my grandparents' house. They had old, old, old appliances that my granddad kept running; he was quite the handyman. I am not. I think I can justify purchasing this because my apartment is small. And the behemoth refrigerator currently living in my kitchen costing me a fortune in appliance repairs, needs to go. I wasn't planning to remodel my kitchen, but I'm tired of losing good food to an ineffective machine. And, life is just too short to live with boring appliances. Don't you agree?I found Smeg at the local home show in Boston this past winter while visiting Anabel. With all the snow we had, there was no way to do anything outside, so one Saturday, I ended up at the home show with my sister. (I was her guest, I could hardly refuse to go and if I did, I was afraid she would want me to babysit.) I had no idea what I was in for. I already told you about finally learning to drive at the ripe old age of 32. I think I'm getting a handle on this grown up thingy now and visiting the home show is moving me forward.The Smeg booth was wondrous. Like I said, I was transported back in time to grandma's kitchen except with a groovy space age twist. I also found this toaster, which I decided I needed to match my fridge.

Ever come across something, see something, experience something and you just hear this is your head: "I need this."I do."And just what is it, Keith," you ask, "that you so desperately feel you need?"I need a Smeg. "A what !?" you say.Let me be more specific. I need a Smeg fridge. They're an Italian appliance company. They make appliances that are super cool and retro looking, but up to date in every other aspect.This is the one I like in particular: The blue one with the Union Jack on it. It reminds me of London. I love London. It also reminds me of my grandparents' house. They had old, old, old appliances that my granddad kept running; he was quite the handyman. I am not. I think I can justify purchasing this because my apartment is small. And the behemoth refrigerator currently living in my kitchen costing me a fortune in appliance repairs, needs to go. I wasn't planning to remodel my kitchen, but I'm tired of losing good food to an ineffective machine. And, life is just too short to live with boring appliances. Don't you agree?I found Smeg at the local home show in Boston this past winter while visiting Anabel. With all the snow we had, there was no way to do anything outside, so one Saturday, I ended up at the home show with my sister. (I was her guest, I could hardly refuse to go and if I did, I was afraid she would want me to babysit.) I had no idea what I was in for. I already told you about finally learning to drive at the ripe old age of 32. I think I'm getting a handle on this grown up thingy now and visiting the home show is moving me forward.The Smeg booth was wondrous. Like I said, I was transported back in time to grandma's kitchen except with a groovy space age twist. I also found this toaster, which I decided I needed to match my fridge.

Turning Over A New Leaf

I just bought a new car. Not so remarkable, you say. People do it everyday. What is remarkable is that I not only just bought my first car at the age of 32, I also just got my first driver's license. What?!I'm sure it's difficult to believe it. Getting a driver's license is a right of passage in America. I'm not sure what really happened...or maybe, I do know. Driver's education was no longer offered as a free course by the time I reached high school. I was so busy with many things, I didn't make it a priority. I lived in an area with excellent public transport. I still do. Then, Uber came along and it was easy to go out on the town cheaply. When I needed to get to the airport, I used a limo service that provides an airport shuttle. Or, bummed a ride with friends. I've always marched a bit to a different drummer and my best friends seem to know that. Anyway...Several weeks ago, I met someone and I just knew it was the right time to own a car. I enrolled in a driver's ed class and started shopping around. Begin green is important to me. So my first thought was to buy a hybrid. Several of my buddies drive a Prius and they love the gas mileage and the quiet motor. I looked at them, but they didn't seem right for me. Then, I found the Leaf.TheLeaf is made by Nissan and it is an all electric car. It was made for me. Why? An ordinary guy in most ways, I differ in that most guys feel defined somewhat by the type of care they drive, and I don't. The Leaf is special in that it's electric, but otherwise, it's pretty unremarkable looking. It is about like driving any other car, except you charge it, instead of filling it with gas. I think it is very easy to drive and I like how compact it is. As with most things with me, I do things in my own time and it was time to buy a car. The Leaf was it for me.

A Voice Was Heard In Ramah

There's a crisis all over the world. It's been going on probably since man began to populate the earth. It can pretty much be summed up like this: Bad guys get control of a country and make it an awful place to live. Many die. Many starve. Many leave (if they can). It's hard to leave. I try to imagine if I had to leave my town because the living conditions became intolerable. If I had to just walk away from my home with just the provisions I can carry. I might even need to carry another person, like a sick relative or a child. I try to imagine, but I don't think I really can fully appreciate what a displaced person is going through.

All over the world...today...this crisis is going on. We see it here in the U.S. where children and minors are crossing our borders illegally. Sent here by their families who are desperate to get them out of harms way. Who are desperate to provide a way for them to have the basics of life: food, shelter, safety and education.

We see this crisis happening across Europe as Syrians flee a long civil war that has killed many innocent people. As I've watched the nightly news reports on the war in Syria over the past few years, I have cringed when I heard how Christians were being used as human shields between the rebels and the government. I have friends who immigrated from Syria several generations ago and still have family there. I know that their family has most likely experienced this.

As a U.S. citizen, I do not really understand this desperation. I've never had to face this situation. I've never had to choose to send my children away so they don't die. Or, risk their lives to get them out. I'm referring to the recent drowning of a toddler as his parents tried in vain to flee Syria and bring him and his older brother to freedom. The image of his timy body washed up on a beach was devastating to see. The media sources that chose to air it came under fire but I also think it was important to see it. This is why:

The Syrian refugee crisis is not new. It did not just begin yesterday. And it's certainly getting worse everyday as we can learn from the constant media reports about Hungary and the hundred-thousand or so trying to travel through there. But, in much of Europe and certainly, here in America, it hasn't been on the radar for the average guy. We've seen regular reports in the news, but unless you have a family member in the military, or family still there, you just don't concern yourself with it. I'm not throwing stones here; I'm this way, too. Until I saw that picture. It broke my heart. I cried. "What a waste," I thought.

Then, I thought some more. That sweet, small boy did not die in vain. His tragic death put the Syrian refugee crisis on the map. Those images showed us, especially those whose governments promote an anti-refugee agenda, these people are just like us. None of us want a child to die. We can turn a blind eye to many things, but this incident is impossible to disregard.

That little child had a name. His name was Aylan Kurdi. He was 3.

“A voice was heard in Ramah,Lamentation, weeping, and great mourning,Rachel weeping for her children,Refusing to be comforted,Because they are no more.” (Matthew 2:18; cf. Jeremiah 31:15)

IQ

I've been thinking about my brain. Alot. I was one of those kids whose parents said, "You're so smart, you can be anything you want to be."No disrespect to my parents, who were well-meaning and supportive, but that's a lie. I don't believe you can do or be anything you want. I think life involves a great deal of luck. Or, if you're religious, blessing and divine appointment. Or karma, maybe?I think life, especially success in life, involves your genetic make-up, your family, your environment, your education, your culture, your era, your generation, your experiences. In other words, being the right person at the right place and the right time. Even being two out of three of those things might give you a shot.

I was very intrigued by the book Outliers by Malcolm Gladwell. His theory about success and achievement stems from his research into the lives of famous people, like Bill Gates. He basically says that intelligence and natural ability is not enough to thrive, the outlying circumstances of a person's life greatly influence and support their endeavors and advancement.

This theory has been put forth before, most notably by a little-known researcher and educator named Jane Piirto. Dr. Piirto is on the faculty of Ashland University in Ohio. She has recieved recognition for her work on creativity and giftedness. She created a model she calls the Piirto Pyramid of Talent Development. I first saw this when I was in the eight grade. My homeroom teacher was working on her master's degree and she was very interested in gifted education. She had our entire class look at the model and fill in the areas from our own lives. (It was rather self-serving on her part using her class as human guinea pigs but she did at least ask permission from our parents first.) To give her credit, I think Ms. Matthews really cared about all of us and thought we were a pretty smart group of kids. Anyway, in the process of completing the assignment on the pyramid, I found myself becoming aware, I think for the first time in my life, of trying to understand my potential as a person. There were several other factors for this shift in perspective.

First, the onset of hormones. My body was really beginning to change by the middle of grade 8. Voice was cracking. Hair was sprouting in all sorts of places. Smells here emitting. Skin was erupting. Girls looked different, too, and I noticed that, sometimes embarrassingly so. Next, at the spring parent-teacher conference, as I sat there with my parents, Ms. Matthews shared information that no other teacher has shared before: my IQ. My school, St. Josephs, like schools across the US, administered the standardized tests in the spring. I'd been taking them since the 2nd grade. Ms. Matthews gave my parents a copy of my test results. This was new as well. In the past, the teacher would just say, "He's fine, no glaring problems." Or, "Maybe some practice math this summer and visits to the library." They never gave us copies of results and exact numbers relating to my intelligence. This was a game changer. For the boy who had begun to measure his height and the circumference of his biceps, this was huge. Now, I could track my intellectual progress.

My IQ, by the way, was 122. Hardly a genius. This did not sit well with me.

The following August, I entered ninth grade and met my new teacher, Mr. Dobbs. He was a cool guy and immediately popular; the girls had crushes and the boys wanted to emulate him. He was single and some of the single female teachers would get all weird around him. Don't think kids don't notice things like that. Anyway, Mr. Dobbs introduced a new concept into our insular worlds of homework, soccer practice and acne cream: purpose. Mr. Dobbs wanted us to think about our purpose: why were we here. For a 14 year old boy that is pretty clear: keep my parents out of my room, get to next level on World of Warcraft and get a girl to notice me. When I think back to it, Mr. Dobbs was either delusional to think we would care about having a calling or purpose, or he was just trying to plant a seed in our homone-addled brains that might someday come to fruition.

Well, it worked. The summer after ninth grade my grandfather died. I was close to him. He taught me how to fish, check the oil in the car, follow the stock exchange. His sudden passing left a gaping hole. Several people spoke at his funeral and to hear their perspective on granddad was eye opening. He was a decision maker. He was merciful; he came to the aid of many less fortunate than himself. I realized granddad's purpose had been much more than to take me fishing. He had been a leader, responsible for the well-being of many other people. Have you heard that question before? The one where you are asked how you think your tombstone would summarize your life?As I entered high school that fall, I decided I needed to be successful like grandad. He was good at finances and I would be, too.

Fast forward to tenth grade and failing Algebra II. I sucked at math. That did not bode well for my future in financial supremacy.I needed to change direction but I sure did not know how to go about it. So, as most guys my age would do, I shelved it and immersed myself in online games, girls, sports, not sucking at all my school work, eating and going to the movies. I had a pretty average life. Then came grade 11. That's when, suddenly, you are supposed to know what subject you want to enslave yourself to study for the next ten years of your life for the profession you enter and the amazing job you will get so you can pay back your parents and the government all the money it cost to put you through college. My parents ferried me around to several four year schools in our state and I spent the night in a couple dorms and ate the cafeteria food and met a professor or two. I took the SAT and did just okay. Not okay enough to get into the schools my parents deemed acceptable. I especially sucked at the math portion only getting a 450. Ugh! So I was put into a private class to help me improve my scores.

During all of this process, I began to wonder about my IQ. I asked myself if maybe my innate intelligence did not lend itself to scoring well on any test. I'd been told I was above average intelligence, but not that far above. Maybe I wasn't really college material. I began to suspect that I wasn't so smart afterall.

I convinced my parents that I wasn't ready for a four year college like Anabel had been and that I was probably better suited for two years at the local college. I think they were exhausted by the whole process by then. Anabel's whole journey had been so easy, so predictable, so on point that their experience with me was just too much of a paradigm shift for them to engage. So, they gave in. For the next four years, I lived in my bedroom, made good money doing some commercial fishing on the side and did passably well in junior college.

Then, two years ago, I woke up one day and decided it was time. Time to move out, time to move on. I no longer wanted to smell like dead fish. I no longer wanted my mother fretting over the state of my underwear. I decided my purpose was definitely not to be a moocher, loser living off his parents. And, I had money. For being someone who sucks at math, I seem to do okay making money.

I finished my undergrad degree in education. I teach in an underpriviledged area of a large urban school district. It was teacher training that brought me back to the subject of IQ and it's relevancy. Since the eighth grade, I have taken numerous other IQ tests. My IQ has ranged from 118 (too many beers the night before) to 146. I have begun to take an interest in IQ as a factor in determining student success. I want to write more about this, but in the meantime, here is an interested video about IQ that gives a different perspective.

Music in the Head

“It really is a very odd business that all of us, to varying degrees, have music in our heads.” ― Oliver Sacks, Musicophilia: Tales of Music and the Brain

I have music in my head. I think we all do. And I don't mean that I'm wearing earbuds. You know...you are walking, fast, trying to get your heartrate up, or maybe you're running, and you begin to hear an internal band with a deep bass and a drum. Ta dah, ta dah, ta dah...every time the sole of your foot connects with the pavement, the drum thumps and the bass rumbles. Or, you are cooking and there is music, adagio flowing behind your head as you slice vegetables. Oh, wait...that's the iPod.

"You're so weird, Keith," my sister, Anabel would say. "Well, Anabel, I'm actually not in this regard," I would say back, "Most of us have music in our head, songs we can not turn off. It's very common."

Speaking of Anabel. I was at her house the other day to stay with my nephew for an hour so she could get some shopping done. Gregory and I decided to watch Daniel Tiger. For two days after that, "It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood!" wafted through my brain several times a day. This phenomenom of repeatedly hearing a snippet of music in your head over and over is being studied by scientists as several universities. They have coined a name for it: earworms.

"That sounds yucky!" Gregory would say. I agree.

Earworms, the bits of music in our heads that just won't go away, are thought to be part of our neurological process having to do with memory. One theory is that our brain will attach a patch of music to a location or person or event. When we encounter that person, place or thing again, we 'rehear' that music. I relate to this.

Have you ever been someplace-a store, a bar, a party-and they play a song that instantly brings up something from your past? I think the earworms sort of function like that, only it isn't clear exactly what the association is or why it's coming up right when it does.

Oliver Sacks, who is quoted at the beginning of this piece, is a genius who has done pioneering work in healing people from brain injury. In his practice, he found that people who had lost their ability to speak, would begin singing along to a song they knew when it was played for them. Then, they could continue to talk about the song for sometime after singing it. Sacks found that music has incredible power to unlock the brain and bring healing.

That certainly seems credible to me. I mean, think about it, we all relate to music. We all have favorite music, favorite songs. In fact, music is a huge part of our cultural currency. Singer songwriters, like Taylor Swift, regularly sing about old boyfriends or their feuds with other popstars and we get onboard with it. We all get happy along with Pharrell and we all get introspective when we hear "Candle In The Wind" by Elton John.

Music and emotion and memory are what I'm getting at here in my round about way. And that's not easy for me. I tend to the Asperger side of things and emotions are not something I'm necessarily on to. Or, as Anabel would say, "Don't be such a robot, Keith".

Anyway, that's what's been in my head today: music and it's power over us.

By the way, one of the articles I read about earworms said the best way to get one to go away is to do a puzzle, like a crossword or sudoku puzzle. Another thing to try is to finish singing the song to the end.

It's a beautiful day in the neighborhoodA beautiful day for a neighborWon't you be mine, won't you be mine?Won't you be my neighbor?